


Cold Steel and Smoking Lips

by DoreyG



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: ALL the badasses, Bond is naked, Five Acts, Hotel room sex again, I may have a problem, Knives, M/M, Post Movie, Q is dressed, a bit of powerplay, cutting off clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take the picture: a bony, fragile man. Barely out of boyhood, still with the shadow of spots upon his face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Steel and Smoking Lips

Take the picture: a bony, fragile man. Barely out of boyhood, still with the shadow of spots upon his face. Not a white hair on his head, not a single wrinkle crumpling his skin – only full black, smooth paleness that stretches into rough wool. The single hint to him being more than he seems, perhaps a bohemian university graduate in the habit of complaining in a threadbare box of a flat, the slightest _glint_ to his eye – a little bit of wiseness that even an agent trained over twenty years could quite easily miss.

Now: take the way he holds a knife.

Take the way he knocks that trained agent back to the bed, as easily as breathing. Take the way he straddles, as no true innocent could possibly manage. Take the way he _crawls_ , inch by inch with knife carefully ghosting over fabric so expensive that it could probably buy two ordinary cars – maybe three, depending on the seller.

“007,” Q purrs, and cuts him out of his bow-tie as easily as he’d slice butter.

You wouldn’t expect a boy, _such_ a boy to the point where he’s wondering if this is the youngest he’s ever considered bedding, to know how to hold a knife. How to hold _anything_ , really. He looks like he’d break a gun, with a dramatic fumble and awkward cough. Looks like his wrists could barely hold up the weight of a properly full mug, would need somebody to support him every sip of the way. Looks like he’s barely even _touched_ a cock, the type of person who came out of some pretentious university with only a combined year of longing overall to show for it.

You wouldn’t expect it, But it still _happens_.

The jacket, ever so expensive, floats to the floor in mere rags. The shirt, slightly less so, follows smoothly. The undershirt, more a precaution than anything, is cut so close to skin that it can be _felt_. The sentiment is continued for a few long moments afterwards – the knife hovered deliciously over skin to the point where a cut is expected at any moment.

“Bond,” Q hums in his ear, and gets started on his trousers with a briskness that can only be admired.

He never even thought that he’d _want_ this, he can admit now that things are getting tighter and closer and _right_ to the point. Dangerous women squeezed into dresses, martini glasses in hand and guns held delicately behind back. Tough men, always older than him when he was young and close to his age now that he’s… Well. Those are his types, those are his almost-weaknesses, _those_ are the things that boys who look barely capable of holding knives are surely not-

That point is a little confused now, he will admit.

His trousers go, like they were never there. His underwear follows in a businesslike motion, soon afterwards. Q even takes time on his socks, slicing them from his feet in a way that’s never been erotic before but that somehow _manages_.

“James,” Q deigns, and slithers back up his body with knife still in hand.

And it may be a surprise to some, definitely _will_ be a surprise to most, but he’s never really gotten off on pain before. Adrenaline, yes. Danger, maybe. But he has no use for pain: has thought himself too experienced in the bastards of the world to ever get off on a gun held to his head or a fist slammed into his stomach or a tight hand around his balls or a _knife_ -

And that has been rapidly proved untrue again, such a pity.

And the scrape of cold steel against his collarbone is _intoxicating_ , and the tightness of Q’s hand around his cock is _superb_ , and the still clothed weight of him upon his stomach is _astonishing_ , and the sharp breaths in his ear sound like the _best_ kind of bullets, and there is heat and light and brilliance and the last time he remembers coming this hard is with Vesper smiling in his ear and _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_ -

“James,” Q repeats, and _laughs_ softly as he quietly falls apart.

He reaches for Q afterwards, tries to return the favour, but the man is quick ( _this_ time) and is already somehow away before he can get his slightly dulled hands to grasp anything at all. He simply sits on the edge of the bed, gives a smile that could be called slightly _smug_ on anybody else.

It occurs to him, what with Q’s predilection for the absurdly baggy, that he can’t even _see_ if the state was entirely returned.

A pity, but not one that he was ever trained to dwell upon. He simply sighs, forces himself up to a sitting position without a single shake and starts upon fashioning the bedsheets into some sort of toga. They’re in a hotel: at most it’ll be five minutes before he can steal other clothes off some dozy porter or from another room, and at least he has the shoulders to pull it off. 

“Bond,” Q corrects softly, and points with the knife to a nearby closet.

You also wouldn’t expect, after something as _unexpected_ (if fantastic, it must be given) as that, any other preparation. But yet, in the closet, there is absolutely everything needed: another pair of trousers, pressed and professional. Another white shirt, another soft jacket. Even another bow tie, pressed and slightly ridiculous in its little packet.

No underwear, though.

But, then, that can be taken as merely another unexpected thing. You get almost used to it after a while, what with the life. Everything is perfectly sized, perfectly fit as if somebody has watched for measurements and gone to the best tailor in the land. A little twirl is only _polite_ after getting redressed, just a courtesy to show off how good the work truly _is_.

“007,” Q chides him, and hands him the knife in the most professional way possible.

Take an idea: a _judgement_ , perhaps. There’s a boy in a museum, young and inexperienced – he claims to be able to help the safety of a whole country, and by the end of the first meeting that can almost be believed. Then take the boy standing in a lab, a little later but still young – he claims to be able to save the world and beat one of the darkest villains ever faced, and by the end of the second meeting that can also be believed. _Then_ take the boy sitting in a hotel room, seemingly innocent on the end of a rumpled bed…

Now: anything can be believed.

The kiss is brief and dry, another courtesy. The door opens and closes smoothly, the note on the handle of the knife is only found about five steps down the corridor. There’s no way of knowing if a smile and a different kind of glint lurks behind: there’s only the mission, and that’s the only thing that can be taken.


End file.
